Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  About this period she was induced to undertake the poetical department for the editor of a morning paper,5252 and actually commenced a series of satirical odes, on local and temporary subjects, to which was affixed the signature of “Tabitha Bramble.” Among these lighter compositions, considered by the author as unworthy of a place with her collected poems, a more matured production of her genius was occasionally introduced, of which the following “Ode to Spring,” written April 30, 1780, is a beautiful and affecting example:

  “ODE TO SPRING

  “Life-glowing season! odour-breathing Spring!

  Deck’d in cerulean splendours! — vivid, — warm,

  Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours,

  And calling forth their beauties! balmy Spring!

  To thee the vegetating world begins

  To pay fresh homage. Ev’ry southern gale

  Whispers thy coming; — every tepid show’r

  Revivifies thy charms. The mountain breeze

  Wafts the ethereal essence to the vale,

  While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard

  With tenfold sweetness. When the dawn unfolds

  Its purple splendours ‘mid the dappled clouds,

  Thy influence cheers the soul. When noon uplifts

  Its burning canopy, spreading the plain

  Of heaven’s own radiance with one vast of light,

  Thou smil’st triumphant! Ev’ry little flow’r

  Seems to exult in thee, delicious Spring,

  Luxuriant nurse of nature! By the stream,

  That winds its swift course down the mountain’s side,

  Thy progeny are seen; — young primroses,

  And all the varying buds of wildest birth,

  Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn,

  Which arms the hedgerow, the young birds invite

  With merry minstrelsy, shrilly and maz’d

  With winding cadences: now quick, now sunk

  In the low twitter’d song. The evening sky

  Reddens the distant main; catching the sail,

  Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue

  Varying the sea-green wave; while the young moon,

  Scarce visible amid the warmer tints

  Of western splendours, slowly lifts her brow

  Modest and icy-lustred! O’er the plain

  The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle’s head,

  And hanging its clear drops on the wild waste

  Of broomy fragrance. Season of delight!

  Thou soul-expanding pow’r, whose wondrous glow

  Can bid all nature smile! Ah! why to me

  Come unregarded, undelighting still

  This ever-mourning bosom? So I’ve seen

  The sweetest flow’rets bind the icy urn;

  The brightest sunbeams glitter on the grave;

  And the soft zephyr kiss the troubled main,

  With whispered murmurs. Yes, to me, O Spring!

  Thou com’st unwelcom’d by a smile of joy;

  To me! slow with’ring to that silent grave

  Where all is blank and dreary! Yet once more

  The Spring eternal of the soul shall dawn,

  Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change,

  Radiant and unexhausted! Then, ye buds,

  Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales,

  Adorn your little hour, and give your joys

  To bless the fond world-loving traveller,

  Who, smiling, measures the long flow’ry path

  That leads to death! For to such wanderers

  Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream,

  And the last hour unwelcome. Not to me,

  Oh! not to me, stern Death, art thou a foe;

  Thou art the welcome messenger, which brings

  A passport to a blest and long repose.”

  A just value was at that time set upon the exertions of Mrs. Robinson, by the conductors of the paper, who “considered them as one of the principal embellishments and supports of their journal.”

  In the spring of 1800 she was compelled by the daily encroachments of her malady wholly to relinquish her literary employments.

  Her disorder was pronounced by the physicians to be a rapid decline. Dr. Henry Vaughan, who to medical skill unites the most exalted philanthropy, prescribed, as a last resource, a journey to Bristol Wells. A desire once again to behold her native scenes induced Mrs. Robinson eagerly to accede to this proposal. She wept with melancholy pleasure at the idea of closing her eyes for ever upon a world of vanity and disappointment in the place in which she had first drawn breath, and terminating her sorrows on the spot which gave her birth; but even this sad solace was denied to her, from a want of the pecuniary means for its execution. In vain she applied to those on whom honour, humanity, and justice, gave her undoubted claims. She even condescended to entreat, as a donation, the return of those sums granted as a loan in her prosperity.

  The following is a copy of a letter addressed on this occasion to a noble debtor, and found among the papers of Mrs. Robinson after her decease:

  ‘To ——

  “April 23, 1800.

  “MY LORD: — Pronounced by my physicians to be in a rapid decline, I trust that your lordship will have the goodness to assist me with a part of the sum for which you are indebted to me. Without your aid I cannot make trial of the Bristol waters, the only remedy that presents to me any hope of preserving my existence. I should be sorry to die at enmity with any person; and you may be assured, my dear lord, that I bear none toward you. It would be useless to ask you to call on me; but if you would do me that honour, I should be happy, very happy, to see you, being,

  “My dear lord,

  “Yours truly,

  “MARY ROBINSON.”

  To this letter no answer was returned! Further comments are unnecessary.

  The last literary performance of Mrs. Robinson was a volume of Lyrical Tales. She repaired a short time after to a small cottage ornée, belonging to her daughter, near Windsor. Rural occupation and amusement, quiet and pure air, appeared for a time to cheer her spirits and renovate her shattered frame. Once more her active mind returned to its accustomed and favourite pursuits; but the toil of supplying the constant variety required by a daily print, added to other engagements, which she almost despaired of being capacitated to fulfil pressed heavily upon her spirits, and weighed down her enfeebled frame. Yet, in the month of August, she began and concluded, in the course of ten days, a translation of Doctor Hagar’s “Picture of Palermo,” — an exertion by which she was greatly debilitated. She was compelled, though with reluctance, to relinquish the translation of “The Messiah” of Klopstock, which she had proposed giving to the English reader in blank verse, — a task particularly suited to her genius and the turn of her mind.

  But, amidst the pressure of complicated distress, the mind of this unfortunate woman was superior to improper concessions, and treated with just indignation those offers of service which required the sacrifice of her integrity.

  She yet continued, though with difficulty and many intervals, her literary avocations. When necessitated by pain and languor to limit her exertions, her unfeeling employers accused her of negligence. This inconsideration, though she seldom complained, affected her spirits and preyed upon her heart. As she hourly declined toward that asylum where “the weary rest,” her mind seemed to acquire strength in proportion to the weakness of her frame. When no longer able to support the fatigue of being removed from her chamber, she retained a perfect composure of spirits, and, in the intervals of extreme bodily suffering, would listen while her daughter read to her, with apparent interest and collectedness of thought, frequently making observations on what would probably take place when she had passed that “bourn whence no traveller returns.” The flattering nature of her disorder at times inspired her friends with the most sanguine hopes of her restoration to health; she would even herself, at intervals, cherish the idea. But these gleams of hope, like fl
ashes of lightning athwart the storm, were succeeded by a deeper gloom, and the consciousness of her approaching fate returned upon the mind of the sufferer with increased conviction.

  Within a few days of her decease, she collected and arranged her poetical works, which she bound her daughter, by a solemn adjuration, to publish for her subscribers, and also the present memoir. Requesting earnestly that the papers prepared for the latter purpose might be brought to her, she gave them into the hands of Miss Robinson, with an injunction that the narrative should be made public, adding, “I should have continued it up to the present time — but perhaps it is as well that I have been prevented. Promise me that you will print it!” The request of a dying parent, so made, and at such a moment, could not be refused. She is obeyed. Upon the solemn assurances of her daughter, that her Last desire, so strongly urged, should be complied with, the mind of Mrs. Robinson became composed and tranquil; her intellects yet remained unimpaired, though her corporeal strength hourly decayed.

  A short time previous to her death, during an interval of her daughter’s absence from her chamber, she called an attending friend, whose benevolent heart and unremitting kindness will, it is hoped, meet hereafter with their reward, and entreated her to observe her last requests, adding, with melancholy tenderness, “I cannot talk to my poor girl on these sad subjects.” Then, with an unruffled manner and minute precision, she gave orders respecting her interment, which she desired might be performed with all possible simplicity. “Let me,” said she, with an impressive though almost inarticulate voice, “be buried in Old Windsor churchyard.” For the selection of that spot she gave a particular reason. She also mentioned an undertaker, whose name she recollected having seen on his door, and whom she appointed from his vicinity to the probable place of her decease. A few trifling memorials, as tributes of her affection, were all the property she had to bequeath. She also earnestly desired that a part of her hair might be sent to two particular persons.

  One evening, her anxious nurses, with a view to divert her mind, talked of some little plans to take place on her restoration to health. She shook her head with an affecting and significant motion. “Don’t deceive yourselves,” said she; “remember, I tell you, I am but a very little time longer for this world.” Then pressing to her heart her daughter, who knelt by her bedside, she held her head for some minutes clasped against her bosom, which throbbed, as with some internal and agonising conflict. “Poor heart,” murmured she, in a deep and stifled tone, “what will become of thee!” She paused some moments, and at length, struggling to assume more composure, desired in a calmer voice that some one would read to her. Throughout the remainder of the evening she continued placidly and even cheerfully attentive to the person who read, observing that, should she recover, she designed to commence a long work, upon which she would bestow great pains and time. “Most of her writings,” she added, “had been composed in too much haste.”

  Her disorder rapidly drawing toward a period, the accumulation of the water upon her chest every moment threatened suffocation. For nearly fifteen nights and days she was obliged to be supported upon pillows, or in the arms of her young and affectionate nurses.5353 Her decease, through this period, was hourly expected. On the 24th of December she inquired how near was Christmas Day! Being answered, “Within a few days,” “Yet,” said she, “I shall never see it.” The remainder of this melancholy day passed in undescribable tortures. Toward midnight, the sufferer exclaimed, “O God, O just and merciful God, help me to support this agony!” The whole of the ensuing day she continued to endure great anguish. In the evening a kind of lethargic stupor came on. Miss Robinson, approaching the pillow of her expiring mother, earnestly conjured her to speak, if in her power. “My darling Mary!” she faintly articulated, and spoke no more. In another hour she became insensible to the grief of those by whom she was surrounded, and breathed her last at a quarter past twelve on the following noon.

  The body was opened, at the express wish of Doctors Pope and Chandler. The immediate cause of her death appeared to have been a dropsy on the chest; but the sufferings which she endured previously to her decease were probably occasioned by six large gall-stones found in the gall-bladder.

  All her requests were strictly observed. Her remains were deposited, according to her direction, in the churchyard of Old Windsor; the spot was marked out by a friend to whom she had signified her wishes. The funeral was attended only by two literary friends.

  Respecting the circumstances of the preceding narrative, every reader must be left to form his own reflections. To the humane mind, the errors of the unfortunate subject of this memoir will appear to have been more than expiated by her sufferings. Nor will the peculiar disadvantages, by which her introduction into life was attended, be forgotten by the candid, — disadvantages that, by converting into a snare the bounties lavished on her by nature, proved not less fatal to her happiness than to her conduct. On her unhappy marriage, and its still more unhappy consequences, it is unnecessary to comment. Thus circumstanced, her genius, her sensibility, and her beauty combined to her destruction, while, by her exposed situation, her inexperience of life, her tender youth, with the magnitude of the temptations which beset her, she could scarcely fail of being betrayed.

  “Say, ye severest ...

  ... what would you have done?”

  The malady which seized her in the bloom of youth, and pursued her with unmitigable severity through every stage of life, till, in the prune of her powers, it laid her in a premature grave, exhibits, in the history of its progress, a series of sufferings that might disarm the sternest, soften the most rigid, and awaken pity in the hardest heart. Her mental exertions through this depressing disease, the elasticity of her mind, and the perseverance of her efforts amidst numberless sources of vexation and distress, cannot fail, while they awaken sympathy, to extort admiration. Had this lovely plant, now withered and low in the dust, been in its early growth transplanted into a happier soil — sheltered from the keen blasts of adversity, and the mildew of detraction, it might have extended its roots, unfolded its blossoms, diffused its sweetness, shed its perfumes, and still flourished, beauteous to the eye, and grateful to the sense.

  To represent the character of the individual in the circumstances of life, his conduct under those circumstances and the consequences which they ultimately produce, is the peculiar province of biography. Little therefore remains to be added. The benevolent temper, the filial piety and the maternal tenderness of Mrs. Robinson are exemplified in the preceding pages, as her genius, her talents, the fertility of her imagination, and the powers of her mind are displayed in her productions, the popularity of which at least affords a presumption of their merit. Her manners were polished and conciliating, her powers of conversation rich and varied. The brilliancy of her wit and the sallies of her fancy were ever tempered by kindness and chastened by delicacy. Though accustomed to the society of the great, and paying to rank the tribute which civil institutions have rendered its due, she reserved her esteem and deference for these only whose talents or whose merits claimed the homage of the mind.

  With the unfortunate votaries of letters she sincerely sympathised, and not unfrequently has been known to divide the profits of her genius with the less successful or less favoured disciples of the muse.

  The productions of Mrs. Robinson, both in prose and verse, are numerous, and of various degrees of merit; but to poetry the native impulse of her genius appears to have been more peculiarly directed. Of the glitter and false taste exhibited in the Della Crusca correspondence5454 she became early sensible; several of her poems breathe a spirit of just sentiment and simple elegance.

  JANE, DUCHESS OF GORDON

  A PASTORAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ROBINSON

  BY PETER PINDAR

  Farewell to the nymph of my heart!

  Farewell to the cottage and vine!

  From these, with a tear, I depart,

  Where pleasure so often was mine.

  Remembrance
shall dwell on her smile,

  And dwell on her lute and her song;

  That sweetly my hours to beguile,

  Oft echoed the valleys along.

  Once more the fair scene let me view,

  The grotto, the brook, and the grove.

  Dear valleys, for ever adieu!

  Adieu to the daughter of Love!

  JANE, DUTCHESS OF GORDON

  “Few women,” says Sir Nathaniel Wraxall, “have performed a more conspicuous part, or occupied a higher place on the public theatre of fashion, politics, and dissipation, than the Duchess of Gordon.”

  Jane, afterward Duchess of Gordon, the rival in beauty and talent to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, was born in Wigtonshire, in Scotland. Her father, Sir William Maxwell of Monreith (anciently Mureith), represented one of the numerous families who branched off from the original stock — Herbert of Caerlaverock, first Lord Maxwell, the ancestor of the famous Earl of Nithsdale, whose countess, Winifred, played so noble a part when her husband was in prison during the Jacobite insurrection. From this honourable house descended, in our time, the gallant Sir Murray Maxwell, whose daughter, Mrs. Carew, became the wife of the too well-known Colonel Waugh; the events which followed are still fresh in the public mind. Until that blemish, loyalty, honour, and prosperity marked out the Maxwells of Monreith for “their own.” In 1681, William Maxwell was created a baronet of Nova Scotia. Various marriages and intermarriages with old and noble families kept the blood pure, a circumstance as much prized by the Scotch as by the Germans. Sir William, the father of the Duchess of Gordon, married Magdalene, the daughter of William Blair, of Blair, and had by her six children, — three sons and three daughters, — of whom the youngest but one was Jane, the subject of this memoir.

  This celebrated woman was a true Scotchwoman — staunch to her principles, proud of her birth, energetic, and determined. Her energy might have died away like a flash in the pan had it not been for her determination. She carried through everything that she attempted; and great personal charms accelerated her influence in that state of society in which, as in the French capital, women had, at that period, an astonishing though transient degree of ascendency.